


Chasing Cars

by Yasuo_Karada



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Breakfast, Drug Use, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasuo_Karada/pseuds/Yasuo_Karada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't quite know how to say how I feel. Those three words are said too much; they're not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Süße

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the beginning to a series of drabbles that I'll upload as I go. The tags and rating will change as I progress through the stories. There will be multiple pairings, AUs, scenarios, etc.

“Aoba... _Lieb_...” Noiz hushed softly against Aoba's ear, lips ghosting against the supple skin of his cheek as he left a loving peck. Aoba only grunted sleepily in response, and Noiz's heart fluttered as he saw the faint smile in contentment form on his boyfriend's face. “Aoba, wake up.”  
  
“Hm?” Aoba's eyelids flustered open at the second smooch on his face. He seemed a bit confused in the first waking moments of consciousness, but once Noiz came into view, kneeling beside the bed, he smiled sleepily up at him.  
  
“Good morning, _Liebling_ ,” Noiz grinned back, leaning in to leave another peck on the tip of his nose. Aoba's own smile only grew wider and he leaned in to return the favor, his lips brushing against Noiz's in a chaste manner.  
  
“You're up early,” the sleepy man muttered after a quick glance to the digital clock on his bedside table.  
  
“Not particularly.” Noiz shrugged. Despite it being his day off of work, he didn't sleep in all that much.  
  
He froze when Aoba settled back against the bed, laying on his stomach with his arms folded under the pillow to hug it closer against him, his bare back rising with his steady breaths and a knee poking out from underneath the sheet that covered his sprawled out legs; a few stray locks of hair feathered around his face, and the small pout he gave as he felt himself locked under Noiz's unwavering gaze made Noiz's stomach do flips. “What are _you_ looking at?”  
  
God, he was so beautiful, even when he was just being roused from sleep.  
  
“Nothing,” Noiz chuckled, hoisting himself up onto his feet. “I made breakfast. It should still be warm.”  
  
A hand was offered out to Aoba, who declined it with a shake of his head before he sat upright and stretched his arms above his head. “M'kay. I'll be out in a second, let me get decent.”  
  
“It's not like I'd care if you came out naked.”  
  
_That_ little remark earned him a pillow to the face.  
  
“Be patient, brat. I _said_ I'll be out in a second,” Aoba huffed half-heartedly, climbing out of bed to hastily make his way to Noiz's bathroom.  
  
Noiz was already at the table when Aoba emerged from down the hall, wearing his favorite blue boxer briefs and one of Noiz's black undershirts. He couldn't help but raise an interested eyebrow at how good Aoba looked in black, quickly shaking it off to take a sip of his coffee.  
  
“Thanks for getting that, Noiz,” Aoba grinned appreciatively as he took his seat across from Noiz. “This looks really good! It must've taken you all morning to set up.”  
  
“Heh, it wasn't _that_ hard. Your lack of faith in my cooking abilities wounds me.” Noiz smirked and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. “Want a quick vocabulary lesson?”  
  
The deadpan scowl Aoba shot in his direction gave him his answer. Too bad.  
  
“Why don't you tell me what this food is, in German?”  
  
“Noiz...” Aoba sighed, dropping his resistance immediately; once Noiz had an idea it was nigh impossible to make him change his mind. “Okay, fine. This is _Brötchen_ wiiiiiith _Honig_ and _Butter_ ,” he pointed at the bread.  
  
“Good. What about that?” Noiz directed his attention down to the two sausages beside his bread and eggs.  
  
“W- _Wurst_?”  
  
“Good job. What about the eggs?”  
  
Aoba had to think about this for a few seconds before he straightened up and responded with, “ _Rührei_.”  
  
A satisfactory smile came to Noiz's face, soon followed by a sly glint in his eyes as he pointed to himself. “And me?” He was met with another scowl and a raised eyebrow, clearly unamused. “Well?” Noiz egged on.  
  
“ _Ein Balg_.” The blond couldn't help but sputter his lips in a fit of laughter. “Can we eat now?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry to keep you waiting. Go right ahead, _Liebling_.” At that, they clapped their hands together with a soft 'thank you for the food' before picking up their forks and digging in.  
  
As they ate, they swapped curious glances at the other before shying away; they sometimes talked during meals together, but the occasional silence to let their reality sink in and just enjoy each other's company was always a welcomed one.  
  
Noiz chuckled to himself at how ridiculously domestic this all was.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”

 


	2. Kid A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I slipped on a little white lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some SlyBlue!Aoba angst. 
> 
> Warning: suicidal tendencies, thoughts, self-harm

Of all the colors of the rainbow that would break through the clouds without fail after the cleansing rain, none made you feel more at peace than the red of the blood streaming down your wrist; its metallic tint is deep, and it's a lovely contrast to your own ghostly pale skin.  
  
There's a low rumble in your chest, and it's a moment before you realize – you're laughing.  
  
The red will wash away, your skin bruised and marred with scabs until they become a new scar, just as ugly as the others around them, and then you'll repeat it again and again and again. Until it becomes routine. Until it becomes addiction. Until you're numb and it won't get your fix anymore.  
  
A curse hisses out from your clenched teeth despite the laughter, and your bloodied fingers reach up to tug down at your hair with intent, and it's just the kind of pain you need to force those tears out from behind your eyes. It's getting harder every time to cry.  
  
You just want to feel alive.  
  
When it's quiet and the dead of night and you know you won't be caught creeping, you leave the safety of your room to trudge towards the bathroom, your wrist wound tightly by an old shirt you don't care one way or another if it gets soiled, and suddenly there are eyes on you and they know, they peer right into your fucking soul, and you have to hurry, hurry and disappear back into your room with the bandages and more pills than you honestly know what to do with.

The bandages around your cut are messy at best, but they cover the wound and it stops the bleeding; it's not like you can feel the sting anyway, too hopped up on whatever aspirin or antibiotics or cold medicine you felt like putting into your system. Too loose; numb again.  
  
Your fingernails idly scrape vague shapes into your other arm, decorating it alongside the other faded scars dotting your skin as the drugs take affect and you're fading in and out of consciousness. Timber. Timber. Ashes.  
  
You drop to your pillow like that tree nobody would give a shit about if it fell with no one around.  
  
It's two days later when you come to; your mouth is drier than any desert your muddled mind could ever hope to think of and before you can think even further than that the familiar acidic burn climbs up your gut, your chest, and you can just barely manage to make it to your tiny trash can beside your bed to empty what little contents remain in your stomach. Your body slumps to the floor once it's been properly emptied, and your entire being aches, your head spins and your stomach does flips.  
  
But you're still here, feeling all of this. And that's exactly the problem.  
  
Defeated, you force yourself to get up onto your feet, and it takes you a moment before you can regain some stable footing. The room swirls all around you and you have to hold onto the dresser, keeping close to the wall as you stagger over to the door.  
  
The sickeningly sweet aroma of your grandmother's donuts waft throughout the house, your stomach growling in hunger but your head pounding in protest.  
  
You don't need it. You don't need it.  
  
You brush your teeth enough to get that acid out of your mouth and your head lolls to the side as your own pathetic excuse of a reflection stares right back at you with the same dull eyes, face white as a sheet with deep purple bags sinking into your sockets. You curse under your breath as you tear your gaze away, stumbling down the stairs the best you can and practically tripping over your own feet as you hurry out the door before your grandmother can make another futile attempt to talk to you.  
  
The sudden light from that _shit-fucker-goddamn_ sun nearly blinds you, only makes your head ache even more. You have half a mind to try to retreat back to the darkness of your room but standing between you and your solace is an angry, concerned old lady.  
  
Fuck her.

You spit onto the ground and shove your hands deep into your hoodie's pockets, kicking a rock out of your way as you plod down the sidewalk towards the seedier parts of town, the alleys and streets that scare away young children and their overbearing mothers, where gangs have their tag art on just about every inch of concrete and there's never a dull moment with how many fights break out, both over territories and for nothing more than shits and giggles.  
  
You've never been afraid of these streets. In fact, you feel more at home here than anywhere else on this stupid, pathetic excuse of a trash heap called Midorijima.  
  
There's always the chance that you'll piss someone off so badly, push them so far over the edge that they'll just corner you, beat the shit out of you, put the barrel of a gun right up against your temple where you get your worst headaches, the part of your brain responsible for all of these fucking memories of people who've long since abandoned you.  


_Bang._  


  
You shudder at the thought, a new skip in your step and headache fading away with the sun as it slinks down past the horizon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in a bad place when I wrote this.


End file.
